Last Night at Chateau Marmont
Page 85
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“It gets harder and harder to blame it on the tabloids when your husband actually confirms it.”
The expression on Nola’s face was one of disbelief. “Julian admitted . . .”
“He did.”
Nola set her drink down and stared at Brooke.
“I think the exact quote was ‘there was the removal of clothes.’ Like, he has no idea how that happened, but ‘removal’ took place.”
“Oh my.”
“He claims he didn’t sleep with her. As if I’m supposed to believe that.” Her cell phone rang but she immediately silenced it. “Oh, Nola, I just can’t get the picture of the two of them naked together out of my mind! And you want to know the weirdest part? The fact that she is ordinary looking makes me feel even worse. Like, he can’t even claim he was sooo wasted and this hot model just fell into his bed.” She held up a copy of Last Night and shook it. “I mean, she’s average. At best! And let’s not lose sight of the fact that he spent the entire evening courting her. Seducing her. You expect me to believe he didn’t actually sleep with her?”
Nola looked down at her lap.
“Even if he didn’t, he was obviously trying.” Brooke stood up and paced the room. She felt exhausted and keyed up and nauseated at the same time. “He’s having an affair, or wants to be. I’d be an idiot not to accept that.”
Nola remained silent.
“We hardly see each other, and when we do, we fight. We barely ever have sex anymore. While he’s traveling, he’s always out somewhere, with girls and music in the background, and I never even know where. There have been so many rumors. I know every jilted wife on the planet wants to believe her situation is different, but I’d be a fool to think this couldn’t happen to me.” She exhaled and shook her head. “My god, we’re just like my parents. I always thought we’d be different, and here we are. . . .”
“Brooke, you need to talk to him.”
Brooke threw her hands up. “I couldn’t agree more, but where is he? Grabbing sushi in West Hollywood before his late-night-talk-show circuit? Isn’t it hard to ignore the small, simple fact that if he really wanted to be, he would be here right now?”
Nola swirled the contents of her glass and appeared to think about that. “Could he be?”
“Of course he could! He’s not the president, he’s not performing life-saving surgery, and he’s not guiding the shuttle through the atmosphere to a safe landing. He’s a singer, for chrissake, and I think he could figure it out.”
“Well, when will he be back?”
Brooke shrugged and scratched Walter’s neck. “The day after tomorrow. Not for me, mind you. New York is already on the schedule. Apparently the dissolution of your marriage doesn’t warrant a line on the itinerary.”
Nola set her drink down and turned to Brooke. “The dissolution of your marriage? Is that really what’s happening here?”
That phrase hung in the air. “I don’t know, Nola. I really hope not. But I don’t know how we’re going to get over this.”
Brooke tried to suppress the nausea that washed over her. For all her talk the last couple days of “taking time” and “needing space” and “figuring things out,” she’d never allowed herself to really consider the possibility that she and Julian wouldn’t make it through this.
“Look, Nol, I hate to do this, but I’m kicking you out now. I need to sleep.”
“Why? You’re unemployed. What in the world do you have to do tomorrow?”
Brooke laughed. “Thanks for the sensitivity. I’ll have you know, I’m not unemployed, just underemployed. I still have the twenty hours a week at Huntley.”
Nola poured herself another inch of vodka and didn’t bother with the olives this time. “You don’t have to be there until tomorrow afternoon. You really need to go to sleep this minute?”
“No, but I need a couple hours to sob in the shower, try not to Google the Chateau girl, and then cry myself to sleep when I do it anyway,” Brooke answered. She was mostly joking, of course, but it didn’t end up sounding that way.
“Brooke . . .”
“I’m kidding. I’m not really a shower sobber. Besides, I’ll probably take a bath.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
“Well then you’re sleeping on my couch, because I’m headed to bed. Seriously, Nola, I really am fine. I think I could use a little time alone. My mother was shockingly nonintrusive, but I haven’t had a second to myself yet. Not that there won’t be plenty of time for that . . .”
It took another ten minutes to convince Nola to leave, and when she finally did, Brooke wasn’t as relieved as she’d predicted. She took a bath and put on her coziest cotton pajamas and her rattiest robe and climbed on top of the covers, yanking her laptop into bed with her. They’d agreed early on in their marriage never to have a television in the bedroom—which they carried over to computers as well—but considering Julian was nowhere to be found, it felt almost right for her to download 27 Dresses or something equally chick-flickish and zone out. She briefly entertained the idea of bringing in some ice cream but decided it was just too Bridget Jones. The movie proved an excellent distraction, due mostly to her discipline in keeping focused on the screen and not allowing her mind to wander, but as soon as it ended, she made a crucial mistake. Two, actually.
Her first disastrous decision was to listen to her voice mail. It took almost twenty minutes to get through the thirty-three messages that had been left since the day of the Grammys. The shift from Sunday, when friends and family were calling to wish her good luck, to today—when nearly every message sounded like a condolence call—was astonishing. The majority were from Julian, and all included some halfhearted version of “I can explain.” While they were appropriately pleading, none, noticeably, included an “I love you.” There was one each from Randy, her father, Michelle, and Cynthia, all offering support and encouragement; four from Nola at various times wanting to know what was happening and giving updates on Walter; and one from Heather, the guidance counselor at Huntley she’d run into at the Italian bakery. The rest were from old friends, (ex) colleagues, and random acquaintances, and each made it sound as though someone had died. Although she hadn’t felt like crying before she listened, there was a knot in her throat when she finished.
The expression on Nola’s face was one of disbelief. “Julian admitted . . .”
“He did.”
Nola set her drink down and stared at Brooke.
“I think the exact quote was ‘there was the removal of clothes.’ Like, he has no idea how that happened, but ‘removal’ took place.”
“Oh my.”
“He claims he didn’t sleep with her. As if I’m supposed to believe that.” Her cell phone rang but she immediately silenced it. “Oh, Nola, I just can’t get the picture of the two of them naked together out of my mind! And you want to know the weirdest part? The fact that she is ordinary looking makes me feel even worse. Like, he can’t even claim he was sooo wasted and this hot model just fell into his bed.” She held up a copy of Last Night and shook it. “I mean, she’s average. At best! And let’s not lose sight of the fact that he spent the entire evening courting her. Seducing her. You expect me to believe he didn’t actually sleep with her?”
Nola looked down at her lap.
“Even if he didn’t, he was obviously trying.” Brooke stood up and paced the room. She felt exhausted and keyed up and nauseated at the same time. “He’s having an affair, or wants to be. I’d be an idiot not to accept that.”
Nola remained silent.
“We hardly see each other, and when we do, we fight. We barely ever have sex anymore. While he’s traveling, he’s always out somewhere, with girls and music in the background, and I never even know where. There have been so many rumors. I know every jilted wife on the planet wants to believe her situation is different, but I’d be a fool to think this couldn’t happen to me.” She exhaled and shook her head. “My god, we’re just like my parents. I always thought we’d be different, and here we are. . . .”
“Brooke, you need to talk to him.”
Brooke threw her hands up. “I couldn’t agree more, but where is he? Grabbing sushi in West Hollywood before his late-night-talk-show circuit? Isn’t it hard to ignore the small, simple fact that if he really wanted to be, he would be here right now?”
Nola swirled the contents of her glass and appeared to think about that. “Could he be?”
“Of course he could! He’s not the president, he’s not performing life-saving surgery, and he’s not guiding the shuttle through the atmosphere to a safe landing. He’s a singer, for chrissake, and I think he could figure it out.”
“Well, when will he be back?”
Brooke shrugged and scratched Walter’s neck. “The day after tomorrow. Not for me, mind you. New York is already on the schedule. Apparently the dissolution of your marriage doesn’t warrant a line on the itinerary.”
Nola set her drink down and turned to Brooke. “The dissolution of your marriage? Is that really what’s happening here?”
That phrase hung in the air. “I don’t know, Nola. I really hope not. But I don’t know how we’re going to get over this.”
Brooke tried to suppress the nausea that washed over her. For all her talk the last couple days of “taking time” and “needing space” and “figuring things out,” she’d never allowed herself to really consider the possibility that she and Julian wouldn’t make it through this.
“Look, Nol, I hate to do this, but I’m kicking you out now. I need to sleep.”
“Why? You’re unemployed. What in the world do you have to do tomorrow?”
Brooke laughed. “Thanks for the sensitivity. I’ll have you know, I’m not unemployed, just underemployed. I still have the twenty hours a week at Huntley.”
Nola poured herself another inch of vodka and didn’t bother with the olives this time. “You don’t have to be there until tomorrow afternoon. You really need to go to sleep this minute?”
“No, but I need a couple hours to sob in the shower, try not to Google the Chateau girl, and then cry myself to sleep when I do it anyway,” Brooke answered. She was mostly joking, of course, but it didn’t end up sounding that way.
“Brooke . . .”
“I’m kidding. I’m not really a shower sobber. Besides, I’ll probably take a bath.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
“Well then you’re sleeping on my couch, because I’m headed to bed. Seriously, Nola, I really am fine. I think I could use a little time alone. My mother was shockingly nonintrusive, but I haven’t had a second to myself yet. Not that there won’t be plenty of time for that . . .”
It took another ten minutes to convince Nola to leave, and when she finally did, Brooke wasn’t as relieved as she’d predicted. She took a bath and put on her coziest cotton pajamas and her rattiest robe and climbed on top of the covers, yanking her laptop into bed with her. They’d agreed early on in their marriage never to have a television in the bedroom—which they carried over to computers as well—but considering Julian was nowhere to be found, it felt almost right for her to download 27 Dresses or something equally chick-flickish and zone out. She briefly entertained the idea of bringing in some ice cream but decided it was just too Bridget Jones. The movie proved an excellent distraction, due mostly to her discipline in keeping focused on the screen and not allowing her mind to wander, but as soon as it ended, she made a crucial mistake. Two, actually.
Her first disastrous decision was to listen to her voice mail. It took almost twenty minutes to get through the thirty-three messages that had been left since the day of the Grammys. The shift from Sunday, when friends and family were calling to wish her good luck, to today—when nearly every message sounded like a condolence call—was astonishing. The majority were from Julian, and all included some halfhearted version of “I can explain.” While they were appropriately pleading, none, noticeably, included an “I love you.” There was one each from Randy, her father, Michelle, and Cynthia, all offering support and encouragement; four from Nola at various times wanting to know what was happening and giving updates on Walter; and one from Heather, the guidance counselor at Huntley she’d run into at the Italian bakery. The rest were from old friends, (ex) colleagues, and random acquaintances, and each made it sound as though someone had died. Although she hadn’t felt like crying before she listened, there was a knot in her throat when she finished.
